


Tags

by hanyou_elf



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:04:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanyou_elf/pseuds/hanyou_elf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is targeted by evil, and the results are painful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tags

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: there is explicitly homophobic language, racial language, and derogatory slurs. i in no way condone the language, but the bad guy i'm using would use the language.

**Artist:** Gabbi the Great and Powerful

**Rating:** Art:; Fic: R 

**Universe:** MCU 

**Word Count:** ~7,900 

**Beta:** zhem the mewling quim i couldn’t have done this without. 

**Warning: Language.** The language **IS** derogatory and inflammatory. It’s intended to be insulting, and is unapologetic. i am not a person who holds them to be true, but given the bad guy that i’m using, it’s necessary that such language is used. Please be aware that there is homophobic slurs, racial slurs, and derogatory language. 

Past Bucky/Steve; and Tony/Steve pre-slash. 

**Summary:** Steve is targeted by evil, and the results are painful. 

Gabbi's great artwork: http://gabbi.livejournal.com/43503.html

One of the things being in the Army had given him an appreciation of was routine. He liked to know that when he got up, he had a set schedule that, with the exceptionally rare times when the whole Avengers group was needed, he was able to keep to. And on days when he was struggling to maintain a balance between grieving for what he’d lost and trying to focus in the science fiction he’d woken up in, the schedule was the only thing that kept him sane. 

In the mornings, Steve Rogers would get up, always at 4:45 am. He pulled sweat pants on, settled on the edge of his luxurious king sized bed and pulled socks and his running shoes on. He was always out the door by oh-five hundred. It gave him a sense of growing excitement to follow sidewalks in the gloomy twilight of dawn. It was always darkest when he started, but never the dark of Germany. Streetlights guided his path, his run interrupted by early risers and late-nighters coming home to nest. 

When he rounded the street that returned him to the monumental Stark Tower, it was oh-six hundred and the professionals were heading in for the requisite early starts. Career women in business suits wore leggings and tennis shoes instead of the stockings and heels they'd present when on the clock. Large purses were slung over shoulders, carefully chosen to compliment the day's attire. These women scared Steve. Few respected his politeness and were instead rude and rebuffed his offers to open doors or let them lead up the stairs. He'd quit embarrassing himself with most, but never with a select few- Jennifer, Miss Potts' personal assistant always smiled genuinely up at him when he held the door for her. 

The men arrived at the tower in suits and loafers. Most carried their suit jackets and briefcases slung casually over their broad shoulders. The men all wore the muted colors standard in male professional wear: blacks, grays, and dark blues. Except for Peter who seemed to revel in his youthful exuberance. More often than not, beneath his somber black suit he wore pastel and neon shirts. Everything else screamed serious businessman. Steve had liked him on sight. 

As interesting as it was to watch the people coming and going in the mornings, he'd always quit after fifteen minutes. He stormed the stairs that led to the personal living spaces, leaping them in twos and threes until he reached the 143rd floor which housed his modest suite. He usually managed to make it in less than twenty minutes. By oh-seven hundred he was in his shower, for little more than fifteen luxurious minutes. 

After, he prepared himself for his day. He towel dried in the bathroom, brushed his teeth and ran a razor quickly over his jaw. The electric ones were simple and easy, but he missed the shave of his single blade sharpened by long nights with leather. With a splash of aftershave he left the bathroom. The first thing Steve always put on in the mornings was his dogtags. He couldn't believe they'd managed to survive his icy tomb so well. He was fortunate that no one had decided to take the tags he wore. There were two mismatched tags on his chain, one proudly declaring Steve's rank, his birthday, his height and weight, and his army identification number. 

The other bore Bucky's information. 

After he'd gotten dressed- always a pair of khaki slacks, a white undershirt, and a button down that looked pressed and polished- he would take his tennis shoes into the main room and sit in the red abundantly overstuffed but exceedingly comfortable chair while he put them on. He wanted to make sure that the image he presented to the world was one put together, of a man who was sophisticated and respectful enough to care about his appearance. 

Tony teased him mercilessly for his look, called him dated and old, but Steve had been raised with manners and respect. A good image went a long way with people, even if it didn't change anything. Reporters were more respectful in their approach, rather than the ones who harassed Tony, in or out of a suit. He appreciated the respectful behavior, even if they published literary garbage. 

After he was dressed, he'd make himself a bowl of oatmeal (dried oats, carefully measured out water, and a spoonful of sugar) and microwave it while he finished his morning routine. With the button down open, he went into the bathroom and slid deodorant on. Satisfied he wouldn't stink, he would fix his shirt: button all but the top two buttons which left the collar of his undershirt visible and the silver of his dogtags glinting in the fluorescent light. He brushed his hair and parted it as his mother had taught him. 

The microwave always finished while he was fixing his hair. It was alright though because it gave the bowl a second to cool down before he attacked his first breakfast. Since waking up, he'd found himself more sensitive to temperature changes: warm could get too hot and cool could be far too cold. 

After breakfast alone, he would find himself in the company of various Avengers. They didn't follow a schedule as rigidly as Steve found himself needing to, but were still undeniably reliable. He shared a second breakfast with the team. Nobody seemed inclined to harass him for the copious amounts of food he could eat, rather they seemed to encourage it. Especially Bruce and Tony. They frequently said the same thing when they loaded his plate with extras or leftovers or just because they didn't think he ate enough. It always harkened back to his performance. How could the tactical mind function optimally if distracted by hunger pangs? 

Steve made the mistake of reminding them both that he'd matured in Depression-era New York and spent nearly eighteen months in deployment; both of which meant that he'd often gone without or given up his rations for the regular human soldiers who needed them more. Bruce and Tony had gotten looks on their faces that were sad and broken and it had only resulted in more food finding its way to his plate. For nearly a month, snacks would appear every two hours or so. It had gotten ridiculous until Steve promised to never let it happen again. After all, they lived in a tower of plenty, and he had no excuse to deny himself the basic necessity. 

After breakfast, depending on the day, he would head out of the Tower, movies, museums, coffee houses, or parks held his interest most. He only went to museums on Fridays because he had no obligations to fulfill. Mondays were spent mostly on movies. Tuesdays and Thursdays and the weekends he spent in coffee houses and parks, exploring his new city, people watching, and drawing. 

His first tutor showed up at 14:00 and Steve was always home by 13:30. He would have a snack, which placated Bruce's puppy eyes, while he waited for his instructor. 

Steve met with a tutor four times a week. He had different tutors and spent an hour and a half with two and an hour with the third. He studied history with the first, Peyton Smith, a black man who was incredibly handsome with curled black hair and deep brown eyes. It was a crash course in how the world had changed and evolved while he’d been sleeping. It was hard knowing how humanity evolved to become the proficient killing force that it was. Peyton was determined to make Steve understand multiple sides of historical events and fiercely proud of the heritage that had brought humanity to the twenty-first century. 

After a grueling ninety minutes with the history teacher, he was given to the gentler Vanessa Reynolds. She was exotic with almond shaped eyes and a tiny mouth. She claimed to be Japanese descent, but her wife was middle-American, thus the mundane last name. Vanessa called her partner a wife with so little fanfare that Steve had had no choice but to accept it, even if it boggled his mind. She had admitted to Steve with a grin that her maiden name was Takahiro. Vanessa was his cultural teacher. She was a much needed breath of fresh air after the violence of his history lessons. 

He spent the majority of his classes with her watching classic television and his homework included classical movies. Because he’d been an art student before a soldier, she didn’t bother spending too much time with the arts. She just pointed him in the direction of the museums and let him go. Music was the hardest thing to learn. He didn’t understand the angry raging noise, the evolution from the sultry 20’s and 30’s to the brassy and jazzy 40’s and 50’s. He didn’t understand disco, but reveled in the soul and classic mellow tones of what people called golden oldies. He didn’t understand pop or screaming metal. He enjoyed some of the 80’s and 90’s until it turned into self-loathing odes to hatred against the world in general. 

But Vanessa persevered, swore she would find music in the modern age that he would like and eventually, she succeeded. He found the crooners of “romantic classical pop” more to his style. There was sense in the music that the other stuff lacked. 

His technology teacher, Henry Eckert, was a different kind of man. He was handsome in a classic Rubens kind of way: robust, but not fat; plump lips he constantly licked, dark eyes that were definitely blue, and dark blond hair he wore in a scruffy mess that looked like it was purposefully done that way. Henry was a quiet man, but he excelled in his job. Steve would have preferred Tony, but the Iron Man was busy with his former weapons company, now technology, and ensuring that his armor and his teammates were all as protected as they could be. Henry explained things patiently but the dramatic change in technology never failed to frustrate him. 

Henry would stop them when Steve was becoming agitated and he’d distract him with questions about the past. He understood technological and mechanical history, he wanted to understand more. Particularly in Steve’s time spent in Germany. His father had moved them to the states when the war began and the elder Eckert refused to talk about the land that he’d fled. 

Steve liked the constant routine. He enjoyed the familiar jump into the reassurance that the day to day brought him. When he woke up, he knew what he would be doing most of the time. And in a world gone chaotic with all of its supernatural fictitious nature, he needed the routine. 

-.-.-.-

Henry Eckert liked his new job. He was going to punish one of the biggest names in opposition to the Aryan Nation. Steven Grant Rogers, symbol of American ideology and freedoms, was what could be considered the epitome of Aryan: clear blue eyes and perfectly parted blond hair. Clear white skin and a strong body. 

But the man preferred the company of insane people. He didn’t care about desegregation and was public in his friendships with both Tony Start and the archer, Clint Barton. Both men were vocal supporters in gay rights and what the Americans called civil liberties. The monkeys and the fags deserved nothing. They weren’t supposed to be on the same level as the white man. Even the white women in this heathen nation needed to be retrained. 

When the correct race was finally in control, the heathens would learn their places. 

But first, a symbol had to be destroyed. He would have the opportunity with his position. Captain Rogers trusted him. And with that trust came the opportunity to advance their glorious cause. 

It started with talking about the past, what Steve remembered and missed. They bonded over the love of classic things and in learning. If Steve weren’t so wrong, didn’t support his fag co-workers and women’s advancement, he would have been a good friend to have in the cause. 

He found his opportunity on a Thursday. Steve had come into the lesson agitated. His hand was wrapped around the rectangle tags on his chest, running them over the silver links. His free hand was fisted in his lap and Henry took his opportunity. 

“What’ve you got?” he asked Steve. 

A slight blushed colored his cheeks and he stopped fidgeting with them before he answered, “My dogtags.” 

“May I see?” 

Steve bowed his head and slipped the chain over his head. He offered the pair to Henry and looked away. He didn’t say anything and Henry glanced at the cool metal. He blinked in surprise at the top tag: James Buchanan with all of his information etched into it. He thumbed it aside and looked at Steve’s. Behind Buchanan’s tag was Steve’s. He didn’t know how or when they might have exchanged tags, but he knew exactly what that implied. 

It only made his intentions that much more deserving. A fag could not be the symbol of freedom for an entire nation. He dragged his thumb over Steve’s tag, chanting slowly. The spell he would need for the corrupting the Captain needed several incantations. He breathed softly, before he looked up at the Captain’s turned face. He had to make himself put on a friendly face, and hide his disgust at the implied homosexuality. 

“Here you go, Steve,” Henry murmured. “Want to talk about it?” 

“It’s Bucky’s birthday,” Steve sighed. 

“You were from Brooklyn, right?” When Steve nodded, he continued softly, “Would you like to take a trip?” 

“No. I just… It’s the second birthday since he died. I’m okay though,” Steve smiled. 

“We’ll end here today,” Henry said decisively. “You can use the free time and play around with Google.” He patted Steve on the shoulder and stood up. As he left, he said softly, “It’s okay to not be cheerful all the time.” 

-.-.-.-

Steve watched Tony sometimes and imagined that making love to the scientist would be similar to the way it had been with Bucky. He’d been treated like a lover, been treated gently and lovingly and couldn’t have asked for a better first time. 

Steve had been a skinny, sickly body when Bucky had taken him into his lap and just rode their bodies together. It had been exciting and respectful and sweet. And Steve had cried with something he hadn’t been able to understand at the time. But Bucky hadn’t minded. He’d held Steve as he’d rested his head on his shoulder and just rubbed his back. 

_Bucky was nervous as he sat on the edge of the bed. He fidgeted with his hands in his lap before he finally took the initiative. He pulled the thin blond into his arms and pressed his lips against the trembling blond’s. “I love you, Steve,” he murmured between brushes of lips and teasing touches with tongues._

“ _Bucky,” Steve whispered with a soft sigh. He clutched Bucky’s white undershirt tightly, fingers pulling at the cotton fabric. He looked so very good in the dark khaki of his uniform. The glint of his dogtags peeked between the shoulders of his a-shirt. His strong arms wrapped firmly around Steve, pulled his thin body tight against the more muscular one._

_They’d kissed before, held hands in the privacy of their small room, had even touched each other; but never anything close to this. It felt like they were on the precipice of something more, something dangerous and exciting. Steve tilted his head back and looked up into the dark brown eyes of his best friend. His blue eyes shut when a calloused hand slid into his too loose but comfortable jeans and cupped the curve of his butt. “Can we?” he asked with a kiss to Steve’s temple._

_Steve nodded and buried his face in Bucky’s shoulder, his eyelashes brushing against the long column of the muscled neck. He kissed the naked skin on his shoulders and rocked his body against Bucky’s. He had the firm press of Bucky’s erection against his thigh and his own responding erection against his stomach. He wasn’t as big as his best friend, but with his illnesses and his stature, it was something he expected._

_“I got my shipping out date,” Bucky whispered against Steve’s shoulder. “I’m leaving in two weeks.”_

_Steve shut his eyes, refused to look at the man below him and tightened his arms around his neck. He nodded and rocked his body into Bucky’s. The warm hands cupped his butt and pulled him tight against Bucky’s body. Steve shuddered when he felt the cold silver of Bucky’s tags slip over his head, resting against his chest, down to his stomach. He arched his neck and groaned when the strong hand of his best friend fisted in the chains and pulled the blond to him._

_“I love you,” Bucky murmured before he kissed Steve hungrily. His free hand slid into Steve’s pants and underwear and teased at his hole. It was exciting, new, and terrifying. He’d seen Bucky’s erection and he knew how tight his body was, and he knew there was no way that Bucky would ever fit there. It seemed to be an impossible thing._

_Until Bucky opened him up slowly, held him close to his broad chest and worked his body into laxness so he could take Bucky. And when he slid home, unstopping until he had Steve settled in his lap and panting, it was like everything Steve had ever wanted, had ever needed. He clenched his eyes shut and moved with his new lover, went where he was told._

_And when he’d come, dirtying his chest and Bucky’s uniform, he hadn’t been able to stop the pleasure that poured through him. The tears that resulted in his clinging to his neck, begging him silently to not leave, to just stay forever with him, just like this._

He sighed, loneliness and depression blanketing him. He felt like he was betraying Bucky every time that he looked at Tony with anything more than friendship, but he also knew that the brunet from the past wouldn’t want Steve to suffer needlessly. And Steve wanted to give Tony something as sweet and loving as Bucky had given him. He wanted to make sure that everything was good between, that it felt good and right between them. He wanted to drape his dogtags over Tony’s chest and hold it tight in his fist over the arc reactor. The way Bucky had held them against Steve’s too thin chest. He wanted to pull Tony into his lap and dig his thumbs into the cut of his hips, trace his fingers over the curve of his lower back and ride the undulations of his lithe body. 

The scientist would look good in his lap, would look good with the silver dogtags reflected in the pale light of the other man’s heart. With Steve’s fingers buried in the thin body and bringing him to the edge. He wanted to make something with Tony that he’d only had with Bucky before. 

Was Tony a replacement or could he be something else? 

-.-.-.-

Every day for the long month after Bucky’s birthday was a struggle. He’d fought to get out of bed, too tempted to stay in, lethargic beneath the blankets that curled around him. He struggled to get into his workout clothes to take his morning run. He couldn’t pay attention to the lessons his tutors gave. He could barely bring himself to relax. He couldn’t sleep anymore. 

Steve lay on his back in the gym. He stretched his arms above his head, arched his back and pointed his toes. It felt good to finally relax and he groaned in pleasure before he relaxed. He’d spent the last two hours after his session with Henry beating the punching bag, just trying to work out his frustrations. 

He felt off. Steve was pretty certain it was because Buck’s birthday, and since his fall, he hadn’t felt right. He didn’t just feel sad though, he felt angry. He still wanted to punch something, hurt somebody, and it made him feel guilty. 

Everyone around him had done nothing to invite the level of rage he felt. If anything, they’d been incredibly accommodating when it came to Steve’s grief. They’d been respectful of his mood and while not avoiding him, gave him room to breathe. 

He appreciated it. Especially in the wake of so many confusing emotions when it came to Tony. Tony Stark had the same brash cockiness that Buck had been possessed of. He was a unique man, convinced of his own awesomeness and deservedness to be constantly praised. He was handsome in a rugged kind of way. 

A low sound distracted him and he blinked blue eyes at the door, at the man who’d dared to intrude. It was Dr. Bruce Banner, a surprising ally in the Tower. He was patient, and while strong, he was timid enough to be overlooked. He always spoke softly and yet his words rang with authority. In their group of mismatched heroes and egos, the doctor’s intelligent patience was a desperately needed thing. 

Still, Steve found himself irrationally angry with the interruption. 

-.-.-.-

Bruce wasn’t sure how to handle Steve like this. In the time he’d known the successful experiment, he’d never seen that dark glower on his handsome face, unless it was the look that hid behind the cowl of his uniform. 

“Captain?” Bruce asked carefully. 

“Leave me alone,” he growled in response. He sat up and braced his elbows on his knees. 

“Would you like to talk about it?” 

“No,” Steve answered tersely. 

“Why are you angry?” 

“Dr. Banner,” Steve sighed in frustration. “I’d really rather not talk about it. I would prefer to not have company at the moment.” 

“I’m worried about you. I haven’t seen you in the labs after your technology lessons in weeks. With Bucky’s birthday, I wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Steve. You know you can come talk to me whenever,” Bruce offered. 

The super soldier was not supposed to have this kind of rage built up within him. He was a forgiving and peaceful man who happened to have been shaped in decades of violence. 

Steve sighed heavily and visibly deflated. “I’m,” he stopped. Licked his lips and ran a large hand through his disheveled hair. “I don’t know why I’m angry. I’m at peace with the reality of Bucky. I am. But ever since his birthday, it just doesn’t seem right. I don’t know where being mad is coming from.” 

Bruce blinked slowly and stepped into the gym. He folded himself down to Steve’s level. He crossed his legs and rested stained hands on his knees. “Let’s just… have you tried meditation?” he asked instead. 

Steve shook his head and adjusted his posture so he mimicked Bruce. His blue eyes were narrowed in an anger that he didn’t understand. His mouth was tightened. He didn’t look right, his usual grace jilted with the rage clogging his body. 

“Close your eyes, Steve,” Bruce murmured. “Listen to my voice. Let your mind relax and let go of your anger.” 

The blond nodded and was quiet as Bruce led him through an imagined forest, through a quiet clearing and into a hidden cave where he waited in darkness and just breathed in the quiet. He could remember Bucky’s touch, the way he’d smelt like gunpowder and sweat. Had tasted like watered down coffee and strong tobacco. He could feel Bucky’s hand, calloused from repeated use with guns and fighting. 

Nearly half an hour later after Bruce guided him back to the gym, Steve blinked open his blue eyes. He asked softly, “Is it okay to be attracted to somebody else?” 

Bruce nodded and smiled sadly as he said as delicately as he could: “Steve, tell me the truth? Were you in a relationship with Bucky? Because you haven't admitted it to anyone else yet.” 

He smiled and his eyes were distant as he nodded. “Because… Bucky was everything. He made sure I was able to eat, made sure I slept. When I was a soldier, he made sure I focused on the mission. He’s the reason I’m the man I am right now. I loved him more than anything,” he said firmly. His eyes were sad and closed as he finished softly, “I thought we’d grow old together.” 

“You know it isn’t the crime that it used to be?” 

Steve nodded and folded his hands together in the valley of his crossed legs. “It still feels like it would be. Or that it should be, I don’t know, something wrong.” 

“The person you’re attracted to is a man?” Bruce asked gently. 

“Yeah.” 

“You know you’ve been with us for six months now. There were six months between Bucky’s death and your being frozen. It’s okay to move on. To grow. You loved Bucky, and that was good. But now you’re allowed to love Buck and move on.” 

“It seems unfaithful,” Steve admitted softly. 

“Bucky loved you,” Bruce said. “He gave you comfort and he gave you peace. But he’s not here anymore. You’re allowed, deserve to move on. You can’t be faithful to a man who’s died. Come here,” Bruce murmured finally. 

Steve moved closer to Bruce and settled down beside him. He tensed when Bruce draped an arm over his broad shoulders. “Don’t forget Bucky. But don’t be miserable in his name. It isn’t fair to you, and it isn’t fair to his memory.” 

The soldier pulled his knees to his chest, buried his face in them and was silent as his body shook. He cried quietly, hidden as though ashamed of this display of weakness. Anyone looking in would see a soldier being comforted by his scientist friend. 

-.-.-.-

Steve’s aggravation continued on for weeks. Fridays were always the worst. He felt like he was just getting his aggravation under control and he would wake up on Friday, wrapped in impotent rage. Agent Coulson had offered shell shock, post-traumatic stress disorder, as an excuse. Said that free time could be bad, left him with too much time to think, and in doing so, he reflected on what he’d lost. 

Steve wasn’t convinced. But he had resigned himself to constant anger, to the wide swings in his emotions. He was beginning to accept the fact that he was an emotional wreck and that nothing would help. 

He adjusted his routine to include an extra two hours in the gym. Beating on inanimate objects helped. He worked himself into a sweaty mess, broke countless punching bags and left many dents in the wall. 

He was slowly losing control of himself, and as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he would need help or have to quit the Avengers team. He couldn’t lead them if he couldn’t control himself. 

Bruce had insisted on meditation on Saturdays, and while it had helped in the first few weeks it was no longer what it used to be. Even though he was closest to Bruce, he was starting to find exasperated anger ready to explode out of him at the slightest provocation. 

It had been a long six months. 

-.-.-.-

Rage. He was just angry; much angrier than he’d ever been in his life. He was angrier than he could recall- even counting his time in the war. He didn’t like this feeling: the uncontrollable urge to break something in two. And even though he recognized the horror in the thought, he considered the easily broken bodies of his teammates’ far too human bodies. Particularly Tony. He wanted to take the smart mouthed scientist and throw him against a wall to ruin him. He wanted to leave him broken and battered and ignored. 

And conflicting with that, he wanted to throw Tony against a wall, press against his lithe form, kiss him within an inch of his life and ride his body- hopefully tight though he was undoubtedly experienced. And every time he thought about riding Tony’s body, using him for pleasure that was good because it was so wrong, he felt the anger redouble. His aggravation grew day by day and week by week until the day he closed his eyes in the gym and, facing the punching bag he’d become intimately familiar with, gave into the rush of _red._ To the euphoria that was hate. 

-.-.-.-

Clint noticed it first. He recognized the dull thumps of the Captain’s frustrated rage, whaling on the sand filled bags with all of his considerable strength. It was a toss-up which would give first: the fabric concealing the sand or the reinforced steel holding it to the ceiling. Either was just as likely to give as the other and Clint knew it was only a matter of time before whatever was bothering Steve exploded. He’d been hopeful the meditation would help, but it seemed to do nothing for the Captain. Bruce was calmer than he’d ever seen scientist. 

There was a noise of glass breaking, shards shattering and scattering over tiled floor. It was followed by a vitriolic stream of cursing that Clint had never heard from the soldier. Concerned, he dropped out of the crawlspace in the hallway that led to the gym, sure that the man wouldn’t want the sudden surprise of a visitor while he raged. Steve was ridiculously strong and he didn’t like to be surprised. If he was caught in a flashback, a nightmare; whatever it was, he was likely to react in violence. Thor, luckily, had been the victim of the terror that time. The demi-god could weather the Captain’s strength easily, unlike his more mortal teammates. 

Clint watched the Captain, standing alone in the room, broken glass surrounded him. Blood trickled down his cheeks, down his neck, and his arms. It was gory and macabre, and the stretched white t-shirt that he wore was wet with sweat and blood. “Captain Rogers,” he said in the most authoritative voice he could muster. 

He had never had to deal with a man like Steve in the middle of a rage. And whatever this was, it wasn’t natural. Steve’s eyes, usually so blue and brilliant, were glowing whitely. They weren’t right. Clint was a long distance assassin. He didn’t get close and personal. He didn’t have the kind of fighting finesse that Natasha had. He wasn’t a hand to hand combatant like those he worked with, preferring instead the stealth of marksmanship. 

He didn’t have anything on him that would safely take down Steve. And he didn’t want to hurt the super soldier either. Carrying only the hunting set of arrows that he used for practice, he knew that it would be stupid to engage the soldier. The blond blinked at him, uncaring of the rain that snuck in through the broken glass, uncaring of the blood that dribbled from his fisted hand. 

“Captain,” Clint called again. 

Steve’s eyes lifted to his and the archer felt his lungs freeze in his chest. He was mumbling something unintelligibly and Clint struggled to understand him. He wasn’t surprised to hear Tony behind him, the surprisingly quiet movements of the metallic suit as he joined them in the gym. Apparently Jarvis had been discreet in alerting the Avengers. 

“Captain,” Tony’s voice carried over the noise of water and heavy panting breath. “Captain, what’s filthy?” And Clint couldn’t even claim to be surprised that Tony could understand Steve, even though he was mumbling and the rain was white noise in the air. 

“Everything. _Everyone._ Jewpigs. Niggers. Faggots,” Steve spat. “Disgusting.” 

“Steve,” Tony said softly. “Steve, you don’t… you can’t mean that.” 

“You’re disgusting. Supporting them. You’ll all be wiped out. Imperfections will be purged.” 

“Steve, what’s wrong with you?” Tony asked in a voice that was soft with confusion and not a little anger. 

Clint knew that there was something wrong, and he knew that something had to happen to fix this, but he didn’t know what he could possibly do. He and Steve didn’t have the same kind of relationship that Tony and Steve did. They were only just friends, barely even that. They were too different as soldiers and as men. It didn’t make them bad friends; they just didn’t have anything to relate to each other. 

“Is there… There has to be something that we can do to knock him into the right frame of mind,” Tony asserted. His voice was on the edge of hysterical. He needed to calm down before he did something stupid. They needed to be focused on the bleeding captain, on the fact that the man’s eyes were glowing white in the pale light of the gym; on the fact that the kindest man that they all knew was spilling vitriol. 

-.-.-.-

“Steve?” Tony shouted. He shifted and the reassuring weight of the armor around him helped him breathe easy. This was scary. He was struggling to stand still, to keep the armor off of his face, and just look at the man. The blond turned to look at him and the words he’d been spitting were stopped as he stepped closer to the scientist. His hands relaxed and blood dripped just a little more easily, falling to the gym floor in steady droplets. His white lit eyes narrowed in anger and his full lips pursed as he took a step toward Tony. “I know you can hear me,” he started as he stepped forward. 

“This is beyond science, my friend,” Thor interrupted. “This is very powerful dark magic.” 

Tony turned on the ball of his foot and looked at the demi-god. Steve was possessed? He blinked slowly. “I hate magic,” he muttered as he turned dark eyes back on the soldier. 

“The aura… Whoever the conjurer is must be very powerful. They did a fantastic job setting the spell to grow slowly so as to avoid alerting us to his different demeanor.” 

“How do you we break it?” Tony asked. 

“We have to find the counter to it or we have to find the source.” 

“Pretty sure the source is impossible without Steve’s contribution and that’s not helping right now. Jarvis, backtrack the Captain, I want to know when this started. I want records of everything with Captain Rogers in it, analyze and find out when he might have come into contact with a fucking wizard.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Tony strode forward and didn’t stop until he was nearly toe to toe with Steve, his mechanically enhanced hands fisted at his armored sides as he said softly, “Steve, you gotta… You’re not this man.” 

“You’re a heathen. A faggot,” Steve spat darkly in Tony’s face. 

There was no warning between powerful hands bracing against the armor and the sensation of flying. His head smacked the punching bag and he grunted before plaster rained down on him. He could feel sand in the collar of the armor and rubbing against his neck. It was uncomfortable and painful. But nothing compared to the painful feeling of betrayal that lit through him with the knowledge that Steve had hit him. 

He shook the shock off in time to take Natasha’s hand to stand up. 

Thor stood against Steve, his hands fisted in front of him at the ready, waiting for the Capsicle’s first move. The air crackled with controlled energy and Tony couldn’t help the response to so much tension. He hardened in his armor. He knew that he wanted to taste the power of the blond soldier, but he knew that it was impossible. Steve wouldn’t let him, especially right now, when he was spewing hatred like breathing. 

Focusing on the scene and not the way Steve’s body looked when it was tensed and on the edge of controlled movement, Tony breathed evenly. Natasha was comforting beside him, because he could see her fingers moving over her wrist, slowly drawing out the line that she used as a garrote. If all else failed, she would climb onto his back and strangle him into submission. It was a gory and violent end, but it was one that would work. 

It seemed like a breath was all it took before they started fighting. Tony didn’t see who had taken the first swing but he knew they were fairly evenly matched. Powerful fists flew in tandem, bruises appeared and blood blossomed. Thor looked to be enjoying himself and Steve just looked pissed. Tony couldn’t remember ever seeing the blond soldier so angry. 

Thor lost whatever it was that had kept him evenly matched with Steve and was sent flying out of the broken window, through the glass that had been broken while Steve was alone. There was a roar as Thor fell and Tony couldn’t stop the reaction. He ran to Steve and managed to get a punch in before he was wrapped in the powerful arms. 

Tony clenched his eyes shut, his arms caught at his side, unable to move. He could feel the armor creaking as it pushed inward, pressing into the tender parts of his sides. He could feel metal pressing against his sides. Steve’s eyes were not right: murky pale light seemed to emanate from what should have been gloriously azure eyes. It was sad, depressing, if he had to die looking into Steve’s eyes, he’d at least wanted to have the blue ones. Not this, not these glowing eyes that belonged to something other than Steve. 

“Steve,” he whined breathlessly. His back arched as the eyes narrowed and the arms around him tightened. “Steve.” 

Pressure eased around his middle as Steve’s hand came up to cup Tony’s face. There was a moment of sincere and utter tenderness. Tony’s eyes fell shut and he breathed in the scent of rain soaked air, of blood and electricity and infinite softness before the hand disappeared and pain radiated through his body from his stomach. 

The soldier had taken the moment of disoriented distraction and drove his fist into Tony’s stomach. He coughed, choked on the pain that vibrated out from the center of his body. He could taste the iron on the back of his tongue and knew that Steve had driven through the armor and hit something vital. He could barely breathe in and knew it was a very bad situation going worse quicker than even he had anticipated. 

He reached up with a shaking hand, grabbing futilely at the air until his fingers closed around the thin chain of Steve’s dogtags. If this was his time, then he had to make sure that he at least said the words that had been dancing on the tip of his tongue for weeks, for months. He could feel the slow slide of blood down his side, through the two piece body suit and down his thigh. He could feel the blood in the back of his throat and knew it was going to be close, no matter what. 

He pulled his body up, pressed his lips as close to Steve’s as he could and whispered, “I love you. And I forgive you.” 

Pain welled up bright and sparking along his spine and he pressed his lips against the corner of Steve’s lips, disgusted at the smear of blood that he left before the chain in his hand broke and he wilted. Darkness engulfed him and he gave up, content that he’d done what he’d needed to do. 

-.-.-.-

Steve blinked back into consciousness suddenly. His blinked and looked up at the ruined gym before he realized he was holding Clint by the neck against the wall. He gasped and tasted the blood on his lips. He didn’t feel any injuries that indicated he should be bleeding in the mouth. He couldn’t see anyone else: Bruce, Natasha, and Tony were completely missing; Thor was climbing in through the broken window; and Clint was struggling for breath and pulling at the hand around his neck. 

He let go and stepped back in shock. “Cl-Clint?” he stuttered softly as he blinked again in confusion. 

“Captain?” the archer rasped. 

Steve nodded slowly and before he could say anything else was engulfed in darkness. 

-.-.-.-

He woke up and knew that something had happened. He was in a hospital wing somewhere and he was chained down. Something was wrapped around his wrists and he could feel his ankles held firmly in place. He tried to pull them apart so he could free himself, but it was impossible. He was someplace familiar with a super soldier’s strength. Around him, the whining noise of machines that were attached to him sounded their piercing alarms. 

“Captain Rogers,” the soft, familiar voice of Natasha called. 

“Natasha?” he croaked. 

“What do you remember?” 

“It’s been a long… I’ve been very angry.” 

“You have been. It came to a head on Saturday night,” Natasha murmured. 

“What happened?” he asked in a voice that was rough and nearly unrecognizable. 

“There was some fighting. And then it was over.” 

“Where’s…” he trailed off. 

“Tony’s in serious condition, but he’s going to be okay. Thor has left and Clint is at HQ. Bruce is with Tony.” 

“Why am I chained?” 

“Because it was almost impossible to stop you. You threw Thor out of the Tower. You put Tony in the hospital, even with the armor. And you were choking Clint before you came to your senses.” 

Steve relaxed back against the hospital bed and clenched his eyes shut. He struggled to get his breath under control even as there were tears in his eyes. “Can I… Can I see Tony?” 

“We have to make sure that you’re you, Captain.” 

She nodded at him before she left the room. And it made Steve feel so much worse than he already had. She’d only just managed to let herself relax around Bruce and he’d gone and made things bad between them. She would never relax with him now, she was too cautious and wouldn’t be able to let go of the strange tension she carried because he’d broken the faith that had grown between them. 

-.-.-.-

Bruce watched Steve while the psychologist was in with him. She was a no-nonsense woman and was thorough as she took Steve through what he remembered and what had happened. It was terrifying, to know that he had been manipulated by somebody that they had trusted. And he knew that Steve would have a hard time ahead of him, just like the rest of them. Steve’s faith in people had been compromised. And his eyes carried that haunted look that said he knew he’d been played for a fool. 

Bruce wanted to hug him, wanted to know if the talk that they’d shared regarding Tony and Bucky had been sincere, or if it had been a side effect of whatever had taken him hostage; the magic that had corrupted his anger and emotions. He needed to have some time with Steve, to guide him through better meditation and to try to convince him that even though he’d been used, he was still a very important piece of their team. 

When the blond was left alone, he took the opportunity to come into the room. He settled in the chair beside Steve’s bed and folded his hands in his lap. He watched the big man, uncertain and defeated in the bed; he looked unbelievably small. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve murmured. 

“You were under the influence of something, of somebody. We’ll figure it out.” 

“I’m… Can I see Tony?” 

“Tomorrow,” Bruce answered. “Until then, you have to stay here, like this until we’re sure that it’s all gone. You were being controlled.” 

“I… Can I be alone?” Steve asked softly. He closed his eyes, and Bruce was relieved to have seen the blue. 

-.-.-.-

It was late afternoon when they finally unchained him. He flexed and stretched his sore body to get the circulation running normally through him. He followed Bruce through the halls, his hands fisted together before him with his fingers tangled together. His head was bowed, contrite and embarrassed at the lack of control. 

Bruce paused at the door to Tony’s room and stopped him with a hand to his chest. “Tony’s going to be okay. But he’s bruised, and he’s hurt. He’s also very bored. He’s okay, Steve.” 

The blond nodded and he stepped around the shorter scientist. In the bed, his legs were elevated slightly while his back was supported by innumerable pillows that both cushioned and restrained him. He was in the middle of a rant but stopped when he saw Steve and Bruce in the doorway. 

“Steve!” he crowed happily. 

“Tony,” he answered, much softer. He came into the room and stopped at the chair beside his bed. 

“Sit down, and shut up,” Tony ordered. His breath wheezed out of him with the order (two cracked ribs and bruising) and he shifted his body heavily on the bed so he could turn his eyes (blackened) to Steve. “I’m only going to say this once and I don’t want to repeat myself.” (Lip split.) 

“Okay,” he acquiesced. 

“You were under a spell. You were being controlled by Henry Eckert, your tech teacher. You were a target of his, and we’ll probably never know why. But you were the focus, and in the end, the spell broke when we needed it to. You didn’t seriously hurt anything but the armor. JARVIS is not happy with you because of that, but he’s willing to be lenient because it gives him a chance to work out how to strengthen the armor, and JARVIS loves a good riddle. 

“I don’t blame you for this. Thor doesn’t blame you for this. Natasha might, but she hates magic regardless. Bruce doesn’t blame you. You are not at fault. It took him six months to get control over you, and that was with him in contact with you for a long time, constant and continued. You were better than him until he got impatient.” 

Steve bowed his head and pressed his forehead against the edge of the bed and his shoulders shook. He couldn’t inhale, felt like he had when asthma controlled his lungs and kept him under its power. He jumped when a hand slid through his hair and rubbed the crown of his head before it slid down to his neck. “I’m sorry, Tony.” 

“I forgive you, Steve,” he said gently. “Now, I’m going to lie here, and I’m going to go back to sleep. Do not leave. Give me your hand.” Confusion worked its way through the blond, but Steve obeyed. He gave Tony his hand and sighed when strong fingers laced with his comfortingly. “I forgive you,” he repeated softly. 

Steve nodded and it seemed like seconds later before the scientist was taken by sleep. Beneath the white shirt he wore, there was the glint of light against a familiar chain. Now that Steve was looking for it, he could see the outline of his dogtags beneath the shirt against the firm circle of Tony’s reactor. Steve smiled and watched as Tony’s body relaxed deeper into sleep with every passing moment. 

He never let go of Steve’s hand. 

The End


End file.
